


Scum

by feedmyflame



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 09:39:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feedmyflame/pseuds/feedmyflame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damon’s dead, and someone’s about to join him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scum

“Shut up.”

She grabs the man by his hair, pulling him backwards until he calls out in pain. She yanks his eyes into view, though her vision’s less than clear.

“Get hard.” Her voice is nails, not erotic—the command is cold. Compulsion affects the mind, though, not the body, and the command isn’t enough.

She’s wasted, and miserable, and furious. Furious because Damon left her, even though he said so many times he wouldn’t. Left her, even though he promised not to. Left her, even though he wasn’t supposed to be able to.

Died, even though he wasn’t supposed to be able to.

Elena gives up on controlling the man’s bloodflow with her pupils. Decides to use her fangs instead. Decides she’ll drain him, decides she’ll drink until she can’t, before she even tears into him. What a useless fucking bag of blood and bones. She doesn’t have to know him to know he’s scum, can smell it on his breath, can hear it in his cries. No, more like whimpers. She yanks roots to hear them again and it clinches her assessment. Fucking scum.

Fucking scum that’s going to die.

She’s going to take her time with this one, because she has a lot of it, and it’s not going anywhere. He’s scum and he’s going to die like scum, fucking slowly, because every minute she spends with her fangs in a vein is a minute she doesn’t have to spend thinking.

The alley is dark, but she can see everything. She sees everything of him she wants to see, and what she wants to see is pain. What she wants to see is fear. What she wants to see is prey. So that’s what she sees; turns him every which way, taking in every view, looking carefully at his stupid fucking face especially. Pathetic, really. Unsatisfying prey, now that she really looks at him. He’d looked much hotter on the stage, strobe lights hiding him half the time, an upgrade. She wishes she couldn’t see him so well, actually. Wishes she couldn’t see much of anything.

The wall helps. She compels him to put his arms and legs out against it. At least compulsion is fucking good for something. Her instincts train on the strongest pulsing of his most exposed arteries, carotid, femoral. His wrists are chiseled, if that’s possible. He probably works out a lot. Fucking waste of space.

She’s slow but unceremonious. Fangs tear his leg open without preamble, but they’re sadistically casual; she digs in fast and rips sideways, lazy, to hear him scream. He screams. She gashes a tear further down his leg, flaying flesh to the knee, and his screams peak in pitch.

Baby.

Humans heal so, so slow, and his wounds won’t stitch themselves before he dies, so the flesh hangs sick off the bone. She looks at her handiwork with detachment, hunger piqued but satisfied that it will soon be quenched, so it doesn’t pressure her. She’s grateful. She doesn’t want something base like hunger to curtail her feed, if you can really call it a feed. 

He’s bleeding freely, and she’s afraid in passing he’ll die too soon. Blood turns rancid when it’s stagnant; might as well drink a bloodbag. She hasn’t since she turned it off. It’s disgusting. The pleasure’s in the movement, motion, jumping cells hurrying over each other into her mouth. That’s what really sates her. That’s what sets her clit pounding. That’s what makes her smile, and she doesn’t smile much. Her smiles these days are sick, depraved, but she doesn’t enjoy them any less. Who’s to say she’s wrong?

She goes for the other leg, decides she doesn’t care much if he dies too soon. She’ll find another one. There’s billions of them. Fucking billions of walking bags of blood and bone and the loss of one is statistically insignificant. The loss of a hundred is statistically insignificant, now that she thinks about it. Probably even a thousand. She’s never done the math.

Maybe she’ll get a statistics degree, she thinks as she fillets his other thigh. She’s curious how many she’d have to kill for her count to be statistically significant, in terms of the population as a whole.

Miraculously, his pitchy shrieks don’t draw any law enforcement to the alley. She’s uninterrupted as she watches matching blood pools collect around his feet. So much wasted, but what does it matter when there’s a limitless supply? There’s not much left in him, but he’s managing to stay upright, so she knows she has a little time. She hugs brick and lets it hold her up so she can concentrate on the extended wrist, kisses it for the perversity, tears into it for the shooting clenches in her cunt. Grunts for the effect. Licks for the intent. Bites and rips for the fun of it, the just-because of it, the why-not of it, and his shouts bounce back, fucking beautiful.

He slips a little, and she’s disappointed, but just for a second. She wants him down on her terms and she grabs him by the throat, shoves him over. He goes down easy, probably passes out, because the scum doesn’t make scum noises anymore. It’s just a formality, now, and she kneels around the chisel of his torso. She grabs his hair again, but there’s no sport in it; muscles don’t fight back, so the yank is unsatisfying. She pulls harder to hear something snap and the satisfaction’s back, a little. If only she’d been patient, the carotid would be pulsing in fear, rushing with self-preservation instincts. They’ve gone mute now that the bastard’s gone and fainted. Good-for-nothing. She rocks back, seated on his ruined legs, and pulls his torso up to her by the hair; she recreates the rhythm of gentle sex, rocking slowly on his limp lap as she hooks her fangs into his weak vein. They rock like that, a limp body in her strong embrace, until he’s definitely dead, and she rocks a little more, pace the same. Has to keep it interesting somehow. She won’t come on this body, she doesn’t think, but she might come on the next one, and she rocks a little more, just because. There’s really no blood left in him to speak of, and it’s not flowing quickly anyway, so she takes her fangs out and wraps her arms around the corpse, tucking her head against the leaking holes and rocking, rocking. The puncture wounds dot her forehead and when she finally throws the body aside she’s left with matching circles on her face, his final blessing. She doesn’t bother wiping them away when she goes back into the club, covered in blood and a victim or two away from coming, and the bartender doesn’t bat an eye when she orders a bottle of bourbon, neat.


End file.
